Loud Nights and Silent Mornings
by Darren White
Summary: In which Revy wonders just what's wrong with that Jap. Unbeta'd, somewhat experimental oneshot. Revy/Rock.
1. A Question of Safety

Outside a dust-caked window allowing light to filter between the crooked slats of venetian blinds and into a cluttered room, the tropical city of Roanpur milled about its business. Vehicles of all makes and sizes whirred along the narrow streets of the sprawling city, winding around medians and between sun-bleached buildings that stood in various states of decay. Vagrants sat in small, dirty clusters along the sidewalks, clinging to the mouths of alleys and the low-hanging entrances to decrepit buildings, occasionally turning tanned, leathery faces to the searing blue sky. The odors of exhaust, salt water, and dust hung like an invisible cloud over Roanpur, interspersed with the occasional coppery scent of blood.

Behind the dirty window overlooking a portion of this unclean fresco, inside the cluttered room filled with well-kept firearms and well-nursed bottles of alcohol, and upon rumpled white sheets lay a redheaded woman reaching the uncomfortable decision to get out of bed. She reached up and rubbed her amber eyes, swearing and groaning as her feet swung over the side of the mattress and landed on the wooden floor. The dark planks creaked as she stumbled across them. Clumsily grabbing at a pair of white panties on the desk, Revy dislodged a small stack of empty pizza boxes that went fluttering to the floor. She swore again and kicked one against the wall. She didn't have the time or patience to clean up all that shit today.

As she stepped into her underwear, Revy's gaze alighted on a crisp, white, short-sleeved dress shirt hanging on the barrel of an FN FAL. A triumphant smirk crept onto her lips at the memory of how she whipped that fucking shirt clear across the room, along with the sea-green tie dangling from the stock of an AKS-74. She plucked a tan bra from a pile of empty bottles that subsequently clanked about in their quest to reach the floor. Revy strapped herself in, grumbling about the difficulty of dealing with these fucking jugs every day and whether or not she could just donate the sons of bitches to a hooker somewhere.

She noticed a pair of cutoff denim shorts lying flat on the floor, but decided against getting dressed. Fuck that – nobody was yelling at her to get her ass out of bed today, and she wasn't about to provide her own impetus. Revy flopped back onto her mattress with a small _oomph_ and stared at the layer of dust clinging to the suspended ceiling.

Rock didn't flinch.

She chuckled, remembering how a fifth of scotch and a heated argument over Balalaika turned them both into drunken nymphomaniacs. Revy was surprised the cops hadn't shown up to investigate the screaming and thumping that dragged on until the wee hours of the morning – she was sure that Dutch and Benny had a shitty night, but maybe the two men were able to get some rest once Rock passed out. Revy studied the faint lines on his face, the curl of his lips, and the wild disarray of his hair. With a smirk, she realized that the only time he resembled a rock in any form was in his sleep.

Rock.

Okajima Rokuro.

Two very, very different men. Where Rokuro was uptight and socially subservient, Rock launched a torpedo into a helicopter and flipped the pilot the bird. Rokuro allowed others to dominate him like the world's uke, while Rock stared into the barrel of a Cutlass and spoke his mind. Before a trip to the South China Sea, Rock didn't exist. The Lagoon company named him, gave him a home and a job, and introduced him to the real world. Revy felt responsible for the entire situation, of course, since it was her invitation that drew Rock into the world of Roanpur. She'd pulled him away from the order of Japan and plunged him, kicking and screaming and wearing that _fucking shirt_ , into a criminal underworld that would make the Devil turn his dingleberries into diamonds.

And yet he retained his humanity. Even that perverse little Romanian nightmare yanked at his heart, which was something Revy could not bring herself to comprehend. Everyone knew compassion was weakness – so _why the fuck wasn't he weak?_ Rock stood as the only man to win a staring contest with Sword Cutlass. She fucking _shot_ at him, right between those soul-scouring brown eyes, and Rock didn't flinch. He _cared_ what happened to her, and that was unnerving as fuck. Revy grunted. Who did that asshole think he was? Sure, he fucked good enough, but just because he screwed her brains out over the side of the bed didn't mean there should be any emotional bullshit involved.

Did it?

 _Did_ it?

Of course not, a voice in her mind agreed. She was broken and used up, a faded doll tossed in the waste after a petulant child tired of her charms. Nobody could give a fuck about what happened to her – and why should they? Chinese street rats were a dime for two-dozen.

That was a lie. He _cared_. He did.

She whispered his name twice, inches from the shaggy black hair draped over his ear. Rock's lips twitched. Satisfied he'd never know, Revy wrapped her arms around one of his and buried her face in his neck.


	2. A Question of Sanity

Golden light filtering through crooked Venetian blinds hit him full in the eyes, causing him to snatch at the rumpled, white sheets to cover his face. The cotton fabric allowed only a hazy glare to assault his retinas, which was just enough to provide a significant irritation. Rock groaned and sat up, rubbing what needed to be rubbed and muttering about the evils of hard liquor and crazy women. For some reason, pins and needles shot down his left arm, as though he'd slept on it oddly. He moved his hand behind him, and paused when his fingers met the smooth, warm skin he'd gotten to know so well the previous night. Rock hadn't expected someone like Revy to stay until morning. He trailed his fingers down her stomach, reading the details of Revy's life in scar-tissue braille.

The same life that she, Cutlasses in hand, had offered to a cowering businessman what seemed like eons ago. The choice was bizarre – cower before his superiors, hoping to earn a high mark, or cower before an enraged woman who guzzled rum like water. Rock accepted the life of a pirate without looking back. Laying on Revy's bed, one hand on the hem of her underwear into which he didn't recall her having the energy to squirm, his lack of hesitation seemed even more surreal. Was it Stockholm? Perhaps. Survival instinct? Not likely, given the gun shoved almost constantly in his face. No sane man would go _near_ a woman like Revy.

Yet here Okajima Rokuro lay, next to one of the world's scariest women, after a night of sex that would have made Atilla the Hun blanch. He squeezed his shoulder blades together and felt the still-raw patchwork of scratches running down his back and shoulders stretch. Revy made love the same way she drank and fought; she used every last milliliter of energy in her muscular body to perform to her utmost. Rock's own body, now that the heady rush of unabated pleasure had subsided, screamed for both rest and medical attention. He ignored it.

The woman next to him stirred.

He lay back down and brushed a few strands of auburn hair out of her face. She was beautiful; there was no denying that. Even in her darkest moments, Revy exuded a kind of mad beauty Rock had never thought to imagine. Lying in a peaceful stasis that belied her usual boisterousness, she appeared to him more beautiful than ever. Was it right for him to study her like this? He looked away. No, it certainly wasn't – what would Revy think if she woke up to him staring at her?

And yet, a voice in the back of Rock's head whispered that a moment like that was what Revy wanted all along. Simple proof that somebody, in fact, loved her.

Love?

Yes, he loved her – more than he could describe. But did he? Another voice piped up in his mind. Rock was her creation – Okajima Rokuro died somewhere on the South China Sea, shot by pirates in search of a disc. His entire existence had been forged and molded by the will of the woman next to him, from his new name to the gradual erosion of his conscience. She _created_ him, and he loved her – Oedipus had more to do with the situation than Stockholm.

No, he assured himself, he loved her.

Or was that simply his compassion talking, his driving urge to help those who displayed the need for it?

 _NO_ , Rock insisted, he loved her. Broken though she was, Revy was the best thing that had ever happened to his life, and he wasn't about to let her slip between his fingers. He scooted closer and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth.

He would tell her that when she woke up, he decided.

"Rock." A quiet whisper – a patent impossibility, given the source.

Okajima Rokuro's lips curled in a nervous smile. "Hey Revy?"

"Fix those fuckin' blinds."

He laughed.


End file.
